


I Know You

by SlightlyOff7



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Spoilers, show canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 11:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11920044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlightlyOff7/pseuds/SlightlyOff7
Summary: Jon and Daenerys's relationship, seen from a unique perspective.





	I Know You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! This is my first time writing for this fandom, and I wanted to create something out of the box and unique for a pairing I really never expected to resonate with me as much as it has. So here's hoping its not terrible. I used a High Valyrian translator for all of the italicized terms, so if they actually mean nothing, I apologize in advance. Last but certainly not least, this fic was inspired by an amazing piece of art I saw from Bayard Wu on ArtStation. Check it out here: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/1V5R3

The first time Drogon smells him, he does not believe his nose. This thought alone is ridiculous to the _zaldrizes._ His senses have never been wrong before. But they’ve also never detected anything like this, and the realization sends a thrill to the tip of his wings.

The scent of the blood in the stranger’s veins is so recognizable, so tantalizingly nostalgic, that he can’t help but call out a greeting to him as he winds his way up to the great caverns of rock and salt. Drogon isn’t sure what he expects. There are few humans who can communicate to him and his _lentor_ , but perhaps this one, with his _perzys anogar,_ his fire-blood, can understand what he is trying to say. The question he is desperately wants to ask.

The dark-haired stranger shrinks away at his roar, as so many others have. Drogon feels a twinge of disappointment in his belly. But deep down, he is not surprised. Only _Mhysa_ has ever been able to understand his cry, in her own limited way. However, the disappointment quickly turns into twisting, burning curiosity. Flying so near to the _vala,_ there can no longer be any doubt in Drogon’s mind about what is in his blood. The scent of the newcomer’s sanguine essence is at once startlingly alien and intimately familiar. There is a strangeness to him, a dark strain that calls unbidden to Drogon’s mind the sensation of warm fur and raw meat and cold snow. It startles the _zaldrizes._ He has never experienced any of these. But yet, bound irrevocably with that was the blood that Drogon knew all too well: the fire-blood, the mercurial ebb and flow that started a fire broiling in his gut, the warmth that could either suffuse him in tranquility or consume him with passion.

Drogon does not know what this man’s presence on the island means, but it assures him of one thing, a joyous idea that races through the black dragon as he soars above the salt rock keep to tell his brothers.

_Mhysa is not alone._

 

* * *

 

They have met, exchanged their first words and greetings, and Drogon is worried. He can feel his _Mhysa’s_ emotions through their bond, and the talk is not going well. She is clearly angry, and though he is not experienced with the _Issaros,_ the Stranger, he knows humans well enough to see that something deeply troubles him as well. Drogon also knows that humans are a contentious people, and that they often need a good deal of time to become _raqirossa._ Indeed, when _Mhysa_ first met the _byko kelia vala,_ the little lion man, Drogon could tell she wanted to hate him. Humans are amusing creatures in that way. So many of them decide how to feel about one another before they’d ever truly seen their mettle...  Now, _Mhysa_ trusted the small one above most others. In truth, Drogon himself could often be accused of this prejudice, but the situations were not the same. He had little use for hate. The worst he could feel for an inferior creature was contempt.  Drogon was _zaldrizes,_ and the only equals he’d ever known were his brood mates. Of course, Rhaegal and Viserion know that Drogon is _darys,_ but that is what allows them to get along. Next to his brothers, most humans are weak and petty creatures. But _Mhysa_ had managed to find a few who were made of sterner stuff, like the spear-carrier and the lion man, or the whitebeard (though he was gone), the hairy man who protected her, and even her butterfly girl, who seemed so impossibly soft, yet had steel inside.

Yet Drogon has never felt the desperation he feels between them and the _Issaros_ now. The man was bent on telling _Mhysa_ something, and she seemed equally as intent on denying it. Drogon could feel his rider’s blood rising, and while normally his teeth would already be bared in a snarl at this, he was still put off guard by how clearly he could connect to the _Issaros_. Something about him and _Mhysa_ arguing so vehemently felt wrong to Drogon, like an unease settling into his bones. _We should not fight our lentor, not so close to the enemies._ The thought leaps unbidden into Drogon’s head, and it unnerves him. He doesn’t know this man, _Mhysa_ didn’t trust him, and yet, _and yet…._ Drogon felt as though he knew more about the _vala_ then almost any human alive.

It is later in the evening when Drogon feels them speaking again, and as he circles lazily through the sky next to Viserion, he focuses as much as he can upon the emotions he can discern from them. There is still the quiet desperation, the tense wariness, but Drogon feels other things too. He feels begrudging respect, and even a pang of empathy. And then, at the end, there is an acceptance. Drogon can feel _Mhysa_ willing the meeting to end, but as it does, he catches the faint glimpse of something else: curiosity. It is the not curiosity of wondering, though. It is the curiosity one feels when standing on a cliff, when they look down at the ground below and wonder what they would risk if they tried to fly. It is the curiosity of fear. It is the kind Drogon felt when he looked out at the world from _Mhysa’s_ shoulder, before he learned that the whole world felt that fear when it looked at him, and thus he had no need for it himself. Despite this, Drogon is glad to feel it from _Mhysa._ Perhaps it means that she is beginning to see what Drogon sees in the Stranger. That another of her kind is currently living in her walls, only a few steps away.

The thought gives him hope.

 

* * *

 

Something has changed between them. Drogon senses it. Ever since _Mhysa_ and the Stranger visited the hole filled with frozen fire (Drogon can smell it on her afterwards), the energy between them is different. The wariness between them had been slowly leaving with every day the _Issaros_ spent on the island, but now it had been replaced entirely. In its place, Drogon feels a confusing whorl of feelings in his _Mhysa._ There is still frustration, but there is also hope, and a newborn trust….. and the tiniest bit of fear. Drogon doubts this is towards the _Issaros_ himself, but where it is from exactly is a hard question. Perhaps it is connected to the last sensation Drogon detected from _Mhysa_ before it was all submerged in cold resolve and righteous fury. It was but a tiny flicker, but Drogon swears he felt a flash of heat, a warmth he has felt from her only a few times before. It is a rare thing to _Mhysa_ herself, and the scratchy feeling it leaves in Drogon’s throat is odd and somewhat uncomfortable. Drogon felt it most when _Mhysa_ first met the man who kisses his blades, but when she put Viserion and Rhaegal in the metal cords and Drogon fled, he could feel only the faintest glimmer of his _Mhysa’s_ heart. When he finally returned, the feeling was gone.

Drogon shakes his head, letting the whistling wind clear these pensive thoughts from his skull. There is no use for them now. Now, he hears only the hoof beats of the horselords beneath him, sees only the rolling green hills and rich fields that stretch out as far as he can see. _Mhysa_ says this will be their home soon. Drogon hopes so, but first, she needs him to burn her enemies again. Drogon can feel the _dracarys_ building in his belly, and he narrows his eyes. He is starting to make out the smell of the other men, the tang of their iron and the sweat of their horses. He bares his teeth in a snarl. These _vala_ will kneel before the _darys,_ or they will burn.

Most of them will burn.

 

* * *

 

He can smell the Stranger waiting for them.

The wound in Drogon’s _tikun_ still stings where the iron thorn pierced it, but it is not enough to hamper him. As he flies towards the windswept cliffs of the salt and rock island, he can feel _Mhysa_ willing him to land where the _Issaros_ stands in his flapping cloak and heavy furs. Drogon intended to go there anyway. He is tired of dancing around him, this _vala_ who feels so familiar. He wants to see what he is made off, and he wants to know what he is, to Drogon and to _Mhysa._ As Drogon lands and begins to stalk towards him, he can smell the fear coming off of him in waves. There is apprehension in _Mhysa_ too. She did not expect Drogon to approach the _Issaros_ so directly, and she is trying to discern what he will do. Drogon is curious as well.

As he nears the _vala,_ he can hardly contain the excitement he feels. His blood is still singing from the thrill of battle, and as he draws ever closer to the stranger that has haunted _Mhysa’s_ thoughts, he feels the same anticipation that she does, deep in his gut. The _Issaros_ is removing the covering from his hand, and he extends it towards Drogon, trembling with equal fear and exhilaration. When the two finally touch, Drogon expects to feel something earthshaking. He expects some epiphany, some great sensation to accompany the magnitude of this union. Instead, as the man’s hand settles on his nose, all Drogon can feel is a deep contentment. The smell of the man, while it appeared foreign at first, is so familiar to the _zaldrizes_ that there can be no doubt in his mind now. It reminds him of better days, before the sadness in _Mhysa’s_ chest curled around her heart and wrapped tight. This man is no _issaros._ The blood in their veins is the same, the same kind that runs in Viserion and Rhaegal, the same kind that flows through _Mhysa._ Drogon knows not what to call him now. He can feel the hope in the _vala’s_ chest, and Drogon wonders if he too can feel the connection they share. The connection of _lentor._ Of family.

He feels _Mhysa_ dismount, and as she approaches the _vala_ , Drogon decides it is best to let them be. He gathers his wings again and takes flight, grousing silently at the twinge in his _tikun._ Rhaegal can hunt for him tonight. Drogon did all the fighting today anyway. As he turns toward his den, he can feel a thought cross _Mhysa’s_ mind as she begins speaking to him. Drogon is not sure what a _Jon_ is. He has never heard the term before the arrival of the dark-haired man, does not know it in the language _Mhysa_ taught him. But it has been on her mind ever since, and Drogon decides that if it is what she calls him, it is what he should be called. Drogon can see his brothers now, waiting for his arrival so they can pester him. He must tell them about _Mhysa_ and her _Jon._ They will be happy. Having more _lentor_ is never a bad thing.

 

* * *

 

Drogon is annoyed with his _Mhysa._ She is allowing herself to be stupid in that uniquely human way again. Their _Jon_ wants to go somewhere, somewhere very dark and very cold, and _Mhysa_ doesn’t want him to. Her hairy protector is going too, and she is equally afraid of this. He wonders why she is letting them go at all then! Dragons are meant to keep their _lentor_ close, Drogon thinks. Why is _Mhysa_ sending hers away? He cannot decipher it. All he can do is watch as her protector and her _Jon_ climb into their wooden hut and sail away. _Mhysa_ is still standing on the beach, watching them go, and Drogon can’t help but feel like she is making a mistake. It is an uncomfortable feeling, but Rhaegal and Viserion share it.

 _Mhysa_ does too, he realizes, when he feels her tossing and turning in her den that night, sleep held off by visions of sad grey eyes staring at her.

 

* * *

 

When they finally find their _Jon_ on the frozen lake, Drogon is relieved. When he sees the sea of bone around him, the relief is replaced by anger. _Mhysa_ should never have let him come.

This whole place is wrong. The snow and rocks that had seemed so pure as they raced their way to the arrow mountain now reeked of death and decay. The shapes that swarmed the rock where their _Jon_ stood were shambling monstrosities of bone and rags. And up on the cliffs, Drogon could only describe them as _iorves._ Cold. The cold shapes were watching them as their armies burned, and yet they did nothing.

 _Mhysa_ calls out to them as Drogon and his brothers continue to burn away the dead things, but their _Jon_ doesn’t want to listen. He wants to protect everyone, make sure they all clamber up Drogon’s scales -he growls as the burned one pulls himself on none too gracefully- before he joins them. Drogon is growing impatient, until he hears something that chills him to his bones.

Viserion is falling. And as he does, he _screams._

The smell of his blood is suddenly everywhere, and the only thing Drogon can do as his brother crashes into the frozen water is call out for him. The only thing he can do as his _lentor_ sinks below the ice is continue to burn the dead, continue to fight as he sees their _Jon_ finally turn towards them and run. It is the first time he has ever felt this helpless.

And then he is forced to watch as the ice takes their _Jon_ as well, forced to turn his back and run as he feels the one who smells of ice and the void take aim at his back, where _Mhysa_ sits. Drogon throws himself into the northern air, and soon they are away from the lake of the dead. It is then when Drogon finally allows himself to feel the anguish of his kin. Rhaegal is distraught, keening cries spilling from him as he wails his sorrow to the world. _Mhysa_ is in shock, her mind refusing to accept what has happened even as Drogon can feel her body shake and her hands clench into his hide, her tears freezing on her cheeks before they can fall. And their _Jon_ is gone. Drogon cannot feel him or his _perzys anogar_ anymore. The cold of death has swallowed it.

As they near the great wall of ice crowned with castles, Drogon knows what he feels. He sees blue eyes, smells the empty nothingness and the blood of his brother, can feel the points of a twisted crown, and he _hates._

* * *

 

The first time Drogon smells him, he does not believe his nose. The smell of cold and death almost masks him completely, but when Drogon feels the rush of warmth and fear through _Mhysa,_ he knows their _Jon_ has come back.

 _Mhysa_ refuses to leave his side as he sleeps, and for this, Drogon is glad. He and Rhaegal take the time to mourn out of her sight, to try and preserve what heart she has left. _Mhysa_ is trying to hold herself together for the sake of her herd, and her _Jon,_ and while Drogon understands this, he cannot do the same. When he finally allows himself to truly mourn, the fire he lets forth is the hottest he has ever given breath to. He burns and burns and burns, until the icy cliff he and Rhaegal had come to was glowing orange with his heat. After he has finally burned the anger out, the sorrow comes, and he and his brother scream their plight out into the world for all to hear. They are _zaldrizes,_ the greatest creatures on this world, and their brother is dead. When the day grows old, and their hearts and throats have finally gone raw, Drogon and Rhaegal rest. They sleep nearer to each other than they have since they were _rinar,_ children at _Mhysa’s_ shoulder. Perhaps it is to make up for the empty space that Viserion once occupied.

In the morning, Drogon feels _Mhysa_ and _Jon_ talking. There is still a trace of stupid human hesitation in his _Mhysa_ , and that alone makes Drogon want to scream again. But it is the truest they have ever been when together, and Drogon can see clearly the warmth in them as they look at each other. To his surprise, the warmth doesn’t trouble him as it used to. Rhaegal feels the same, and even as they dance around the burning truth in their throats, Drogon and his brother vow to protect them, their _Mhysa_ and their _Jon._ It will take a long time for them to heal, but _lentor_ heal best when they are together. Drogon suspects he will have an easier time of keeping them near after what has happened.

He will avenge Viserion too, the mighty black _zaldrizes_ promises. He will burn away the dead men and their _iorves_ masters until they are gone from the world. As his thoughts turn to vengeance, he is aware of _Mhysa_ and her _Jon_ making the same promise to each other. That is good.

They will need every dragon there is.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you've enjoyed this! Here's to hoping no one we love dies in the finale!  
> High Valyrian Appendix:  
> Zaldrizes-dragon  
> Lentor-family  
> Perzys anogar-fire blood  
> Mhysa-Mother  
> Issaros-stranger  
> Raqirossa-friends  
> Byka kelia vala-little lion man  
> Darys-king  
> Dracarys-dragonfire  
> Tikun-wing  
> Iorves-cold  
> rinar-children


End file.
